


Tyrajin Week 2020

by nik_aroo



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blue Balls, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nik_aroo/pseuds/nik_aroo
Summary: I'm late to the party, but at least I brought alcohol!
Relationships: Tyrathan Khort/Vol'jin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	1. Hair

Tyrathan looks about the cave as he fiddles with the necklace around his neck. Tied with simple string, with a little wooden bead on either end of a bright red braid of hair, it hangs just above his collarbone. It’s hand made and innocuous. He’s never seen without it.

“A trophy,” Tyrathan would say it was, to any person he encountered who was observant enough to notice it was troll in origin. He’d smirk to himself, “From a particularly stubborn troll I took down.”

They’d nod, congratulate him on his kill, compliment his craftsmanship, and then leave it at that.

Others hardly noticed the small accessory, even though Tyrathan wore it proudly - just another odd accessory worn by another odd character.

The man rubs the braid between thumb and forefinger - a nervous habit, a comfort. The coarse hair brushes against his fingertips, new as the day his lover had chopped it off his head mid-goodbye. 

“Somethin’ ta remember ol’ Vol’jin by, yeah?” He’d joked then, so long ago, amber eyes unable to meet Tyrathan’s green ones, hand squeezed tight around the strap of the bag with all his belongings.

Tyrathan smiles sadly at the memory, just as he had back then. “It’d be impossible to forget you.” He had said, clutching the bundle of hair in his hand. Vol’jin looked at him after that, sorrow clear on his face as he tugged Tyrathan forward by the back of the neck to press his forehead to the man’s own. His warm fur and wild mane had brushed his face, tickling the top of his head and his cheeks. He’d let his hands come up to tangle in the trolls hair, streaks of red running through his fingers as he cupped the back of the trolls head and choked back tears.

Then, he never saw him again.

Tonight, if all goes well, that changes. 

Through various means, and countless days of study and spying and coercion of drunkards, he’s learned quite a bit about trolls, and their relationships with the spirits of their dead.  How one might contact them.

For years after the Broken Shore, he’d try. When nothing worked, he continued to adjust his methods and continued  _ trying _ . There were times that he felt too hopeless to continue, but then he’d see something that reminded him of the troll - a crashing wave, a warm mug, a pair of silhouettes high up on a mountain - and the ache would drive him forward, towards Vol’jin.

Now, though,  _ this time _ , he had a strong feeling all that trying would lead to  _ success _ . If the rumors coming out of Zandalar were true.

_ Really, how ironic, that the Zandalari were the ones to bring you back _ .

He takes a deep breath in, then lets it out. He does one last check that he has all he needs. He kneels in a cave, flanked in a semi-circle by bundles of herbs and incenses that were strong enough to drown out the smell of the shore he was on, and candles that bathe the cave in flickering orange light. 

After a minute more of double-checking, and anxiously triple-checking, and a definitely-not-stalling quadruple-check, he takes hold of the necklace hanging from his neck. He lets it rest in his palm and stares at it. A lump gathers in his throat. Taking one more centering breath, he closes his eyes. In something of a painful recreation of their goodbye, he brings the braid up and presses it to the center of his forehead, and begins praying in Zandalai.

The change is fast - a shiver rolls from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and the space shifts around him from muggy and stagnant to sunny and humid. This is the first time he’s gotten so far. He dares not open his eyes, in fear he might have just imagined the feeling. He swallows in anticipation, waiting for something, some sign that it worked, that it’s real.

Then, a warm furry forehead presses to his own, and coarse hair brushes his temples.


	2. Sunshine

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” Tyrathan says sarcastically.

Vol’jin groans in annoyance and rolls over onto his back. He can hear Tyrathan sigh, and grumble something about him being “the worst after a nap”, some shuffling, then a blinding light is assaulting him through his eyelids. He yelps in protest, throws his arm over his eyes, and extends the other out to wave his mate away.

“Don’t be so damn dramatic,” Tyrathan gripes from the window, which he’d just pulled the fur from, letting the harsh Stranglethorn sun in. He pads over to the troll and nudges him with a foot “Up.”

“Annoyin’...” Vol’jin grumbles half-heartedly in an effort to-

“ _ I’m _ annoying?! This is the third time I’ve been in here!”

… get a rise out of Tyrathan. It was too easy. He doesn’t even try to hide his chuckle.

In retaliation, Tyrathan steps over him and sits on his stomach, rather ungently. Vol’jin  _ oofs _ , his hands instinctively go to rest on Tyrathan’s thighs and Tyrathan puts his hands on his chest.

“I’m not giving you another 30 minutes,” Tyrathan says, completely unyielding to his plight of wanting to nap the entire day. He leans forward and pats the side of Vol'jin's face thrice, also rather ungently. “You said you’d hunt with me today.”

Vol’jin hums, looking up at the man, afternoon sun shining on his hair and eyelashes, a golden glow that compliments his tanned arms. His teasing grin softens, and affection laces his voice when he responds “I be sayin’ that before my nap.”

“And?”

“I changed my mind in me sleep.”

“Really?” Tyrathan says incredulously, “Changed your mind, huh?”

Vol’jin lets his eyes slip closed again and rubs the thighs spread out across his waist, nodding slightly with a grunt of confirmation.

“Plan on sleeping through the whole day, then?” Tyrathan shifts, and though the troll can’t see him, he can feel that Tyrathan is leaning back.

He nods and grunts once more.

“Hmm.” Tyrathan hums in a way that says  _ that’s definitely not going to happen. _ “Okay.”

Vol'jin's eyes shoot back open and he sucks in a breath when Tyrathan puts both hands on his legs behind him, drags himself backward, and presses his rear to the troll's soft dick through his loincloth. Vol’jin can do nothing but stare at the human as he rolls his hips on him in practiced, lazy strokes. The man smiles smugly down at him.

“What’cha be doin’?” Vol’jin asks, a bit choked.

“That’s a stupid question,” Tyrathan remarks flatly and continues to grind his ass against him at his leisure, hands now gripping his own ankles to angle himself. “Showing you a good time, clearly. Plan on making you cum, if that’s all good with you?” 

Huh. Abrupt, a little suspicious, but overall nothing to complain about and a step up from a nap. So the Chieftain shrugs and settles back to enjoy it. His eyelids begin to droop watching the bulge steadily grow in the man’s pants, entranced as Tyrathan’s hips go from small grinds to long rolls to accommodate the troll's hardening length. Vol’jin gives Tyrathan’s thighs a perfunctory squeeze before he slides them up to rest on his hips, pressing the man to him tighter with a demanding groan and a thrust of his own.

Tyrathan chuckles, something warm and deep in his throat, and takes a moment to adjust himself in his pants. The sun rays glisten off the sweat on his brow, and he leans forward to plant both his hands on Vol'jin's chest. With a wiggle of his hips, he lines their cocks up and renews his thrusting - a groan tumbling from his mouth, smile replaced by a slack lip as the man begins to pant from exertion and pleasure. His hips quicken, and they both moan when Vol’jin gives a jerky thrust of his own. They grind and gasp in tandem, Vol'jin's hands wrapped around the human's waist to guide him and the man's nails digging into the troll's fuzzy chest.

Tyrathan cries out. His hips stutter. Unable to keep himself upright any longer, he falls to his elbows. His head hangs between his shoulders, watching as they rut together, and Vol’jin whines when Tyrathan’s thrusts grow desperate and quick.

“Yes,” Vol’jin murmurs, wrapping a hand around to give his cheek a smack and a knead “C’mon, manthing. Cum.”

Tyrathan answers with a whine, and works to obey, chasing his release, moans rising in both pitch and volume as he gets closer- closer-

He locks up when he cums, muscles clenching rhythmically and little punched-out breaths puffing against Vol'jin's stomach. Vol’jin stills himself even though his cock is aching and holds Tyrathan through it, letting the man ride out his orgasm, muttering praises. After the muscle spasms subside, all of the air escapes him in one long and satisfied sigh, and he slumps where he is, cheek pressing in-between the trolls pecs. Vol’jin wraps his arms around him as he lays atop him, rubbing his dick idly in the crook of the man's hip and thigh for some kind of friction.

Tyrathan hums contentedly and pushes himself to sit up, Vol'jin's arms slip from his back to lay sedately across his blue stomach. Tyrathan runs his hand through his hair to get the wild strands out of his face. The Warchief grins up at him, openly ogling; the sight of the hunter straddling him, sweaty and sated, is one he never tires of. Something he thinks he might be able to stare at forever. Anticipation wells in his being, waiting for Tyrathan to make  _ good _ on his promise of a good time. Once he catches his breath, he’ll take Vol’jin in hand, or mouth, or lay on his stomach so Vol’jin can drape himself over him and hump to his heart's content-

“Now, since you’re awake…” Tyrathan says cheerily out of nowhere, breaking Vol’jin out of his fantasizing. In a devastating move, the man plays a cheeky little beat on the troll's stomach with his hands before agilely popping up to a stand. Even the wet spot on his pants doesn’t dampen his exaggerated exuberance. “Up you get. I want more crocolisk hides.”

Vol’jin gapes and sits up as the man steps away from him “‘Ey!” he finally protests, hand going to grip and shake his bulge pointedly “What happened to makin’ me cum? Ya started this!”

“Oh. Now, see…” Tyrathan begins, and Vol’jin already see’s the trap he’s stumbled into before he even continues, and he smacks a hand to his forehead to the sound of Tyrathan’s mocking “ _ I be sayin’ that before I finished. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that on karma  
> also can trolls even get blue balls if their balls are ALWAYS blue


End file.
